


Sebastian Never Misses

by PhoenixandMuser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I'm Bad At Titles, fastest I've ever finished a one off, slight hint of MorMor, unoriginal title, what I did instead of revising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixandMuser/pseuds/PhoenixandMuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men sit alone in their respective flats, and they often contemplate the impact their losses have had on life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sebastian Never Misses

John Watson carried on with his life, although he had great difficulty concentrating on even the simplest tasks. For a while, he had attempted to reconcile with Harry. It wasn’t long before he found that her drinking habits had never improved, despite what she had told him in their occasional correspondence. It was this which had prompted his return to Baker Street.   
He kept a mundane routine, never changing, nothing new. He sat in his office at the surgery, seeing patients as they came in, and went straight home at the end of the day. He would endure the visits from concerned friends with a convincing calmness. He reassured them he was coping; they reassured him that it would get better in time. And then he was left alone again.

 

John was watched. He was entirely oblivious to his surveillance, of course; should he have noticed, he would likely put it down to Mycroft.

 

Sebastian was a drinker. This became an understatement when he heard one of Jim’s “cleaners” complaining about scrubbing the blood off the roof of St. Bart’s. At first, only for an instant, Sebastian was irritated. A competent employee should be more careful about talking where he could easily be overheard, God knows what else he’d let slip. Things quickly fell into perspective. Jim had been gone for weeks. It wasn’t that unusual for him to go away for a few days without telling Sebastian anything, but this disappearance was strange. The last place Jim was known to be was on the roof of the hospital. Sherlock’s blood would be on the pavement… Now Sebastian didn’t understand what he felt. He wasn’t sure if he’d reacted at all. Instead of thinking on the conclusion he’d reached, he sat himself at a bar and one drink led to the next.

It wasn’t much of a challenge for Sebastian to come by work. His reputation made it lucrative to get by on his skills, yet he found himself taking fewer jobs as time went by. By this point, he’d almost entirely abandoned his own profession, turning his full attention to keeping the criminal web afloat. He didn’t enjoy this work; everyday had a bitter edge to it. Nevertheless, he gave it his full effort, thinking of the consequences, namely the major sulk his boss would be in if he returned to find all his work in ruins. Naturally, Sebastian thought in uncertainty: if Jim returned. Not when.

He felt some sort of obligation. He wasn’t sure of his motive, if he had a plan. He brought a rifle with him, which suggested he intended to shoot; but he never set it up, and left it lying unused beside him. Sometimes he’d sit for hours, watching the evening pass in 221b Baker Street. Other times, although less frequent, he merely drove past. Nothing ever changed, however he never had any inclination to stop.

Years had gone by. John Watson was little more than a fatigued shadow of his former self. Sebastian was considered a regular at the hospital for accidents caused by his binge drinking.

There came a day when the impossible happened and the great detective returned. Even though Sebastian was perched on the rooftop of the building opposite, he could clearly hear the roaring stream of expletives John launched at Sherlock. He didn’t stay to watch the punch that followed, hastily making his way back to his own flat.

If Holmes was alive, so was Jim.

Sebastian waited for months. He kept everything running smoothly, even cleaned up their penthouse, which hadn’t been lived in for a while. After the first month, he gave up waiting through the night and began drowning his consciousness in alcohol again.

If Holmes had returned, so would Jim.

After four months, Sebastian had long since ceased his habit of watching Baker Street. Now he watched his own front door, and the hope he had found so strange transformed into anger.

He had army buddies once. There was a comradeship between them, but nothing that withstood his sudden retirement from the forces. He didn’t mind, he had a better offer, and a few casual friendships could never outweigh what he could earn. He never made friends with his colleagues, being taken in as the boss’ favourite didn’t do him any good in that sense, but he never cared. He wasn’t one for relationships either. Maybe he’d have a brief hook-up in an alley behind whichever bar he had been intoxicated in that night. He never brought anyone back.   
Whenever he thought about it, he didn’t know what his relationship with Jim was. They didn’t discuss it, they didn’t mind enough to define it. They tolerated, maybe even enjoyed each other’s company, and Jim was the only person Sebastian ever brought home after a night at the bar. They trusted each other; they could have killed each other in their sleep, but neither made an attempt, that’s trust.

After a lot of hard thought, it occurred to Sebastian that he liked Jim. At some point, he began to care. Jim was his type of person, if he had a type of person he favoured at all. The chaotic mentality could get irritating, but the danger was something Sebastian preferred over regular civilian life. There was banter and jokes, but nothing too overcrowding. They had company, and they had space when they wanted it.

Sebastian had gotten that far before giving up. He simply allowed the anger to manifest, without reason. It burnt him. He looked around himself, his short temper flaring up. He’d kept the business running, he’d let himself get used to another person, all for Jim’s convenience, and all he’d heard about Jim in years was caught by chance from some low level employee. Why should he tolerate the boredom? Why should he put up with anything now? Nothing was lining up in his head, yet this was the obvious conclusion. This was the correct solution to the unknown problem.

Jim climbed the last few steps. He let the front door swing open, calling inside “Honey, I’m home!” with a smirk. The smile soon faded when he got no response. He walked inside, standing in the hallway.  
His nose wrinkled in in irritation, a petulant pout contorting his face. “Sebastian, you’d better not be sulking…” he warned gently, walking into the living room. He cast a fleeting glance about the room, seeing a slice of light seeping through the bottom of the bedroom door.  
His footsteps were unheard of by Sebastian. The door swung open, and Jim lunged into the room, in a rare moment of ungraceful reflexes. He grabbed his wrist, attempting to pull the pistol from Sebastian’s mouth.

This was the only time he regretted having such a skilful sniper. Sebastian never misses.

 

 

 


End file.
